lions

roars. the lions are coming.
‘cept they never come.
I go crawling on my knees
with the ferocity going forward
other prey use to go full tilt
the other direction.

I come salivating with the same
senses flaring as those young ones
think they have for fresh kills.

I come searching for my own game.
my own way to seek out pride
in the pride
that I’ve identified as my pack.

roars. the lions are present.
they sound out my blood
and I offer not even a taste.
I taste them, full on,
teeth exposed and claws
curled and mane soon in my
grasp and their blood
soon pours down this throat,
into this belly, into this
sink hole of memories.
not the other way ’round.

lions, roaring.
ah, what pussies.